


Cleaning Up So Well

by filiabelialis



Series: Find a Home 'verse [4]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Deaf Character, Deaf Clint Barton, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-16
Updated: 2016-04-16
Packaged: 2018-06-02 16:00:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6572602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/filiabelialis/pseuds/filiabelialis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He knows he should be paying better attention, but he’s definitely spacing out again. He’s been doing that. A lot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cleaning Up So Well

**Author's Note:**

> Many, many thanks to Aria, Flite, and Nassira for the beta work. All errors are mine.

Bruce is talking to him, and he knows he should be paying better attention, but he’s definitely spacing out again. He’s been doing that. A lot. It’s like he can hear that words are happening, but they just don’t--make words. It’s not great, because he keeps ending up in these situations where someone is talking to him and he has to either say “what?” and look like a total idiot or just pretend he knows what the hell is going on, and he mostly just awkwardly goes for the latter. Apparently his team members think he’s sort of stoic. Natasha looks like she wants to bust out laughing every time someone says something along those lines, but nobody else notices that, either. To be fair it’s just this little widening of the eyes and nothing else, Clint just knows her. 

 

Bruce ends his sentence on an uplilt, and looks at Clint expectantly. Clint just sort of stares back. It’s really, intensely awkward, but just for Clint, he guesses, given that after a couple seconds Thor steps in with some kind of observation, drawing everyone’s eyes to him with his calm deep voice and his totally natural aura of command. Bruce just rolls with it and answers back like he didn’t even notice Clint’s hesitation. And then Clint’s back in the flow, for a little bit. He can make himself keep up, if he can just focus. 

 

The meeting ends, and Clint dodges the question he can see Natasha wanting to ask with the smile that says, “Yeah, I know, it’s okay if you’re pissed at me but please don’t make me talk about it right now.” It works a hell of a lot better on her than the “Oh yeah, everything’s fine” smile, he’s found. Works again. 

 

Maybe he should talk to Natasha, he thinks, going up stairs to the turret room he picked out when they all stumbled in the door to Tony Stark’s spare mansion months ago. He isn’t having a lot of luck thinking of ways to solve his little issue. He’s tried getting his whole daily to-do list (such as it is) done before he goes into situations where he has to sit and listen, to limit distractions. He’s even asked Bruce about meditating, tried the whole “clearing his mind” thing. He’s tried  _ notetaking _ , surreptitiously, because even if no one else thought it was weird Tony would never shut up, and he likes Tony but Tony likes Tony’s sense of humor way longer than nearly anyone else does. Except maybe Loki. But maybe Loki can just make friends with anybody. 

 

In any case, Clint isn’t very good at any of these coping strategies. You have to take in the words in the first place to take any notes about them, and he’s having some difficulty with that crucial first step. And it’s not like this is just some sort of resurgence of childhood ADD or gifted kid boredom or whatever--he is doing his dream job with a skillset that he is really, really good at, except for the whole meetings thing. The issue doesn’t extend to taking shots in the field--mostly--thank god. He’s got that going for him, if nothing else. 

 

He thinks, when he’s allowing himself to really wallow, that this is probably some kind of trauma. He knew he was in and out there for a while, when the whole world was coming to pieces and they all kept grinding themselves down until they were nearly nothing, even if they were still sharp. He remembers how for a little while Natasha, who would always ask him how he was doing, stopped asking; and how despite the fact that there was a literal alien invasion happening on the global scale for months on end, and the person who brainwashed him had insinuated their way into his team and was now one of only a handful of people helping keep him and the entire population of the earth alive, Natasha being absent like that was maybe the worst part of it for him personally. It’s a monumental lack of perspective, but Clint’s human. 

 

It wasn’t even that bad for him, inside his own head; he just remembers a growing feeling of not much at all. He can’t really remember large swathes of days, battles blending into sitting still and cold and vegetative in front of cartoons while everyone sat around him and tried not to nod off or lose it. He remembers the elevated heart-rate and embarrassing, persistent wariness he felt seeing Loki loose and walking among them in the beginning fading into irritating white noise. He didn’t really get braver or calmer, he thinks; he just ran out of energy for threats that weren’t immediate. The next target, and only the next. So much of that winter was monochrome and cold, and increasingly distant and quiet. 

 

But yeah, they were all really greyed out for a while, himself included. It’s just that this particular extension of that has lasted, and he doesn’t know how to make it go away. Maybe he should talk to a therapist about it? But seriously, who is a qualified therapist for an Avenger, even before the whole war? Coulson would hook him up with the best SHIELD had to offer, he knows, but he’s not sure how someone trained to deal with combat-related PTSD and the stress that extremely confidential work can have on intimacy would know how to advise for “I get so distracted in my Superhero Team Meetings that I miss seventy-five percent of what’s going on.” Given the incredible standards and needs the Avengers have to meet, something like that might even get him pulled from the team. He doesn’t really know what he’d do with himself if that happened. 

 

And yeah, he can’t really talk about this with Natasha for the same reasons. She’s the consummate professional--like, no, she’s really a huge weirdly-socialized nerd under a dark and mysterious exterior, but she is incredible, and she always makes sure that the jobs that need to be done come first, even at the expense of herself, and at the expense of the people she loves most. She wouldn’t get this. And besides, she has much bigger problems--she almost  _ died _ . She and Captain America were falling out of the sky in an alien spaceship and Clint could only stand there screaming at Loki like a child until they actually did something about it, which they were apparently going to do anyway. Clint still doesn’t know what to believe there--and now Clint owes Loki for the life of his best friend as well as Captain America and notable portions of the planet, so that should probably make the whole horrifying brainwashing and aborted world domination thing even, except that it gets a little overwhelming and metaphysical when he starts trying to take everything into account where Loki is involved, and Clint gives up. Loki is a lot of things, but they will never be the thing that takes up Clint’s time and mental space ever again, if Clint can possibly help it. 

 

And then, of course,  _ think  _ of the devil, Clint rounds a corner and nearly walks right into Loki. 

 

“Excuse me,” they say with a little dip of the head, then move right around Clint and glide speedily down the hall. Clint keeps on walking, helping to widen the distance between the two of them. It’s not rude--they have this unspoken agreement that this is just how they deal with living in the same (thankfully huge) house as each other. Clint keeps his cool around Loki, and keeps his shit together, and Loki leaves Clint the hell alone. They’ve both tried to be as considerate about it as possible. It’s a little unsettling, because  _ Loki _ and  _ consideration _ , but it is the best Clint can reasonably ask for. 

 

Clint gets to his room and decides to table the attention issue for the moment. He’s really tired. Barring emergencies, there’s not another team meeting for two weeks. He can just relax this afternoon. He roots around in his mini fridge--Stark offered a whole fridge but Clint didn’t really want the option of being able to retreat from social spaces indefinitely--pulls out orange juice, and settles in front of the computer. He’s been really productive for a lot of the day already--it’s okay if he just surfs for a bit. He puts on music, and turns it up loud. 

 

\--

 

It’s actually Tony that asks him about it first, which means either Tony is taking the Team Dad role he’s getting into really seriously, or it’s way, way worse of an issue than Clint thought, everyone has noticed, and Tony just has the shortest wait time of the entire team. (Which he does, followed closely by Cap). 

 

They are shooting the breeze in Tony’s massive backyard--literally. It’s the start of fall, leaves are falling, and it’s a race between Clint’s bow and Tony’s repulsor beams to hit them first. Thor got disqualified for using lightning and has gone back in the house, friendliness touched by the littlest bit of petulance. He isn’t happy when his honor is insulted, and this extends to accusations of poor sportsmanship, apparently. Clint felt a little bad, but it was kind of hilarious. 

 

Tony’s saying something over his shoulder while tracking with the repulsor. Clint steals the shot from him. “What?” says Clint, focusing back on Tony.

 

“I know we debrief regularly about fieldwork,” says Tony, actually lowering his arm and facing Clint. “And you are, as always, exemplary in the field, thank you Hawkeye.” He drops the mock-formal tone before going on. “But how’re you doing, off the field?” 

 

It’s a vague enough question that Clint really doesn’t have to work hard to stall on this one. “What do you mean?” 

 

Tony’s expression is serious, but he’s trying to keep it more neutral; he’s not going to even to pretend to be nonchalant about this, which is uncharacteristic. “I mean,” he says, “we’re all still feeling really rough. Even though it’s been months, and even though we’re keeping on trucking, we’re definitely feeling it.” 

 

God, of course Tony would be impatient that he couldn’t get over this in a few months. You’d think that getting your heart replaced by a deadly energy source and having one of your closest associates, among others, try to kill you, would give Tony a sense of how these things worked. But then, Tony did manage to science his way out of at least a couple of these problems in a matter of days. Tony doesn’t really do stopping and thinking. 

 

“Like, Steve is maybe the worst at admitting that anything is slowing him down, but even Thor’s had his moments, and I know you take care of Natasha and I take care of Bruce,” Tony continues, “and I know you don’t like to get your stuff on other people. But seriously--how are you doing?” 

 

“Uh,” says Clint Barton, former circus actor and master of deceit and sleight of hand, “Fine.” 

 

Tony stares, expectantly. It’s probably taking a lot of patience not to say more, and Clint refuses to break first. He stares back. Sure enough, Tony makes an impatient grimace, but goes on in the same measured tone he was using before. 

 

“Really? Because you seem a little out of it sometimes. Never when it’s dangerous, just--in meetings, or hanging out, whenever we’re all talking. Like you’re there but not--not entirely there.” 

 

Clint starts to give him a look like he’s humoring him, and Tony looks actually annoyed and presses on, “Like you’re watching the conversation happen around you, but you’re not really a part of it.” 

 

Well, he’s not wrong. Crap. 

 

“Can you keep a secret?” he asks Tony. 

 

“Yeah, sure.” 

 

“Some of those meetings are  _ really _ boring.” 

 

Tony doesn’t laugh, or even crack a grin. He looks pissed. He starts to say something, but Clint turns his focus to another leaf, and taking the shot. 

 

\--

 

He talks to a surprising number of kids, as an Avenger, and not just in the aftermath of missions--he’s always a little worried and more than a little proud when one recognizes him on the street. Luckily, his focus never seems to waver, with the kids, and they’re so excitable that even if he’s answering them wrong they probably don’t care, they’re already babbling out the next thing. Kids are a little overwhelming, but so, so great. Maybe in another life he would have some. But being in the Avengers is not an ideal setup for spending enough time with kids, or even dating anyone. Even if he were going to follow in the footsteps of Tony and Bruce, or Thor, and date within their little bubble--god, who would he even date? Natasha has zero interest, and her friendship would mean too much even if they weren’t working together. Coulson...it’s not like that. It would be weird. 

 

And all of those issues aside, Clint just--he doesn’t think he’d be a good parent. Alcoholics, an orphanage, the circus, and a series of double-crosses between...yeah, his available models for family are not ones he ever wants to inflict on a kid. He’d have to rely on his partner to be the stable one, and besides that being kind of a shitty thing to do, he’s pretty strapped to think of people in his life who are that stable. The dangers of living inside the SHIELD bubble, Coulson always called it, having the other world of your work hanging over your head so much that you eventually forgot how to interact with people outside it. Clint wishes he weren’t, but he knows he’s probably one of those people now. He knows that pretty much everyone in all the major cities in the world were technically on the front lines of the Chitauri War--nobody is really normal anymore--but Clint isn’t sure how he’d talk deeply to people outside his team. 

 

And of course, now he’s having trouble talking to his team. 

 

At least the kids still like him. 

 

Or at least, they do for now. He has a bad moment during one of their missions where a supervillain decided to hold a bank hostage. Very public, a lot of potential for wreckage, and unfortunately that’s what it comes down to, long story short--a mad rush to evacuate civilians at the last second. Clint grabs a little boy, about five, seemingly unsupervised, who definitely wouldn’t have been able to run fast enough. He’s trying to lead the charge outdoors while Cap and Natasha get them moving from inside. Tony’s on crowd control. Bruce has likely Hulked out inside, indestructible and immovable while he keeps the baddie and his explosives in place, with Thor’s help. Loki has been called in at the last minute to help contain the damage cause you can do that, when you have a sorcerer who can both generate bulletproof forcefields for short periods of time and also teleport. 

 

It’s tense, but weirdly routine; the crowd seems to be out and gathering well before the building’s windows shatter, and even though Cap goes back in and comes out with a baby in his arms (Jesus), he’s doing so at a brisk jog, not a sprint. When the bomb does go, it’s a force Clint can feel in his feet and body rather than hear, and there’s no outrush of flame, and the windows, though they break, don’t spray outward on the upturned (oh my god why) faces of those present. Loki and Hulk must have done an okay job. 

 

It’s only after that he realizes the boy he’s holding is crying and trying to get his attention. 

 

He doesn’t even notice until the kid starts poking him on the face. Clint hasn’t even been talking to him, trying to reassure him that it’s going to be okay, distracting him, the things kindergarteners need in life-or-death situations. It’s still a little loud standing in the crowd in the aftermath of an explosion, so he’s guessing as best he can on what the kid is saying, but “where’s my mommy” is not a hard one. Jeez. Really not a good time to be in the Twilight Zone. 

 

“Hey, hey, it’s okay, we’re gonna look for her,” he says to the boy. “What’s your name?” The answer, distorted by tears, is either Michael or Miguel. 

 

“Okay,” says Clint, resettling little M on his hip. “Let’s look for your mom, huh? Help me look for her. What’s your mom’s name?” 

 

M is whipping his head around, growing palpably more frantic, and Clint misses the answer again. “Sorry, buddy, what was that?” he asks, but the kid’s too distracted to answer, and Clint resumes scanning the crowd, looking for any woman who looks like she might be searching for a five-year-old. 

 

M nearly topples out of Clint’s arms a couple minutes later, reaching for a woman who is pushing toward them, tears on her face. Clint hands him off, smiles at her gratitude, tries to keep the conversation to a “Sure, no problem, it’s my job, ma’am,” before moving toward the rest of the team and leaving crowd control to the NYPD. He didn’t want to seem brusque, but he could feel it happening again--that distance from everyone around him, even when he’s trying to keep track of it all. God, this had better not keep up during the briefing. 

 

It does. And through dinner after that. It’s crossing the boundary from anxiety-inducing into obnoxious. Clint stares, determined, at each speaker around the table, trying to crack this wall of cotton-wool in his brain, and mostly just praying that the intense staring isn’t freaking people out. Nobody even notices, as far as he can tell. Maybe this is baseline level weird, coming from him. He doesn’t really know how to tell anymore. It helps, anyway, even if he can mostly only focus on one conversation at a time. 

 

It’s pretty obvious when the ambient conversation stops, though, and Clint’s annoyance spikes when he realizes it’s because Loki is speaking. Loki has a (totally, infuriatingly unconscious) way of making a room quiet down to hear them, and they’re the one person Clint doesn’t particularly want to pay attention to. 

 

“It just hardly seems worthwhile to save the life of the child if its mother is only going to abandon it at the first sign of danger again,” they’re saying stiffly, stabbing at their food. At first Clint thinks that this is a critique of  _ him _ , in addition to being a really dickish thing to say, and opens his mouth to rip Loki a new one, but Loki drawls with badly faked nonchalance, “It’s not as though an infant too small to walk is difficult to carry.” 

 

After a moment Clint realizes, oh, the baby Cap was carrying. Yeah, Loki definitely was in the building to see that by then. He’s wondering what reason Loki could possibly have to care, beyond the basic human decency they clearly don’t have, and then he remembers the story Thor told them about exactly how Loki was adopted. It’s pretty clear from the moon eyes Loki is getting from Thor that he remembers it too. 

 

_ Oh please, _ floats through Clint’s mind faster than he can help it. This feels like a ploy for sympathy at worst, and at best--being abandoned at birth is objectively terrible, and maybe Clint is kind of a bad person, but Loki is objectively such a  _ raging asshole _ that he has a hard time caring too much. Cap, thankfully, changes the subject, but Clint is already packing up his dishes and excusing himself. He’s wiped out anyway. Natasha is watching him now, surreptitiously, like the desire to talk with him is back in her mind. He ducks into the kitchen instead of giving her an answering glance. 

 

He doesn’t need to talk about the Loki thing, really, it’s entirely manageable. He’s not worried that Loki’s going to turn on them, at this point--for whatever reason, now that they’ve all effectively accepted Loki’s presence, Loki has decided to adopt them, like some kind of deranged feral cat. Comments about the relative value of children’s lives aside, Loki is nearly as domesticated as the average Avenger. It’s just--it’s difficult, seeing Loki succeed at saving lives, at talking to his team, at being likeable, at all the things Clint fails at. 

 

It’s difficult remembering the stolen-breath, morphine-high, acid-trip, psychedelic-clarity-with-ritalin-focus that Clint felt under the control of Loki’s scepter, the self that was divorced from himself and yet  _ entirely, _ horribly himself, and to see the person who vivisected him like that sit across the dinner table and be irritable about the job they share. 

 

Clint puts the heels of his hands in his eyes, and rubs them hard. He’s most of the way back to his room now; he didn’t remember the first two thirds of the journey. But then, why would he; it’s uneventful. Maybe he should be worried, though, given the way his brain is lately? 

 

He goes straight to bed, takes a melatonin beforehand. He really just wants to crash, and actually feel rested in the morning, and maybe if he can do that he’ll be a little more on top of things. He’s probably going to have to talk to Natasha eventually, and he fights with that thought as he lays in bed, reassuring himself that he will deal with it in the morning, turn it over in some new insightful way totally unlike the ways he’s been turning it over and over in his head for weeks. 

 

\--

 

He wakes up early anyway, alert for god knows what reason. He doesn’t want to get up--his alarm clock isn’t going off for twenty-three minutes. Karma  _ owes _ him those minutes, dammit. He shuts his eyes, and waits with dread for the alarm clock. 

 

Twenty-three minutes later, he  _ thinks _ he hears it? Maybe he’s just expecting it. He opens his eyes, grudgingly. Yup, there it is, his phone screen lighting up and blaring at him. Well, not blaring, he can still barely hear-- 

 

He can. Barely--

 

He picks up his phone and checks the volume. It’s turned all the way up. He goes into the settings, turns on the vibrate setting, sets an alarm for one minute later. 

 

In one minute, the phone is alive in his hands, scooting across the table as he sets it down. 

 

He’s not dissociating. He’s completely, powerfully aware of what’s going on. He’s also deaf. 

 

\--

 

It should have been obvious, he thinks. He’s been deaf  _ before _ . He got a perforated eardrum or something like that--he was a little too young to remember clearly--as a kid, as the result of a head injury. He was severely deaf for a while, so much that Barney tried to learn some ASL from a book at the library and taught it to Clint. It was their own private language for several years, a barrier from their parents and teachers and social workers and every other adult in the world. He still remembers a little--he learned faster and more than Barney. His eardrum healed, gradually, though his hearing was never quite what it had been before. Maybe that’s why he took this for granted for so long, because it seemed like just a more exaggerated version of normal. 

 

There are a lot of similarities between what is happening now and what happened then. He has to concentrate to hear, and even then it’s pretty heavily reliant on seeing the source of the noise--like a person’s lips--as a visual cue, his memory and best guesses filling in the sound. He can’t hear when someone is facing away, or obstructing their mouth by bowing their head over work, raising an arm in front of their face to fire, or changing the shape of their lips with crying. Ambient noise is an issue--crowds, restaurants, dinners, meetings, the pieces are really falling into place for Clint now. He feels like an idiot. 

 

If he’s going to be fair, it’s not too far-fetched that he wouldn’t get this immediately. The dissociation was very real, while it lasted, and it did royally fuck up his sense of reality as a whole. It wasn’t ridiculous to be operating under the assumption that it was continuing to do so, when it had been his biggest problem for a good while. Deafness was sudden, when it happened before, and was a sudden near-silence; pretty unambiguous. And of course, he’d had people telling him that’s what had happened before he’d had too long to think about it. This time, it had been so gradual--and it must have been, he can’t think of any one moment that his hearing became palpably worse, but he can think of several (hundred) explosions he’d been in close proximity to over the course of the Chitauri War. It’s not silence, even--he can still hear some things fine, given the right noise in the right conditions. 

 

And of course, this time he’s figuring it out on his own. 

 

He’s pretty sure, now that he’s thought of it, that he knows what’s happening with him, but going to a doctor would tell him for sure. He’s trying to figure out why he keeps balking at that. 

 

Well, it’s  _ because _ he’s so sure of what’s happening, and he knows what having that answer on medical record would do for his prospects in continuing with the Avengers. He can’t imagine SHIELD would let him keep going. It’s not that they’re heartless, or don’t take care of their own--they would likely give him a sedentary job more catered to someone with a disability, but he’s not going to fool himself into thinking that they would extend the principles of accessibility far enough to let him keep working in combat zones. He wouldn’t be with his team, and he wouldn’t be shooting a bow. 

 

He thinks about life without that and kind of wants to die. It’s melodramatic. But honestly, between the war and the distance from everyone and all the other things he’s dealing with, this job and what it sets out to do is kind of keeping him going. 

 

Now that he’s admitted that, it’s hard to think around the fact. And now that he’s figured out his issue isn’t a lack of focus, to be thought around or overcome, but the intrinsic and possibly inescapable inability to hear, it feels like the walls are closing in. He’s not going to be able to keep being an Avenger if anyone else finds out. 

 

Which, maybe they won’t. He’s been bluffing it out pretty well so far, he thinks. No one has acted like this is a physical issue--everyone just keeps asking how he feels. Maybe he can just tell people that he’s going to start seeing a therapist and learn how to fake it better in the time that buys. Maybe he can even see a doctor who would keep patient confidentiality, and keep it separate from his SHIELD medical records. He doesn’t know how he could do that--he could just not give insurance information when he visits the audiologist--who he’d have to get a referral for, probably--from his PCP who is affiliated with SHIELD and will therefore NEVER keep any kind of patient confidentiality about something like this. Clint has no illusions about the kind of organization he works for, even if he believes in the work. Anyway, maybe he can figure something out. 

 

He can’t tell Natasha, he thinks, and realizes how monumentally he is screwed. 

 

\--

 

He makes sure he’s never alone in a room with Natasha, which is a hard thing to do--she’s twigged that something is up, and he thinks the only reason she hasn’t broken into his room to corner him into discussing it with her is that she underestimates the severity of the matter. Her annoyance might win out over her willingness to afford him dignity, however, if he keeps going at the rate he’s going. 

 

Also, this stay-in-public strategy has unfortunate side-effect of putting him in rooms full of people talking, often over each other. Now any time he might have spent socially is spent feeling like a little island in a sea of amorphous noise. He’s getting very good at humming noncommittally around the mouth of a beer bottle. For a little while, this works; but unfortunately, his teammates are largely pretty intelligent and observant people. 

 

It comes down to a briefing--not a mission brief, thank god, because Clint is tired and can’t hear anything and rushing off into a combat like this would have been actively dangerous. He is keenly aware of how irresponsible he’s being that this was even a possibility. It's some discussion of long-term plans for dealing with the many enterprising lowlifes popping out of the woodwork to take advantage of an immediately post-war planet. He’s got that much, but he’s not following the specifics very well, and had simply accepted that he is going to have to get the minutes from JARVIS later, when Cap invites him to give his tactical opinion. 

 

Clint has no clue what it is he’s supposed to be commenting on, and stares at Captain America like a deer in the headlights, caught out. Cap and Tony share a minute glance, before they both refocus on Clint. 

 

Clearly Tony has been voicing his earlier concerns. He should have known that being flip with Tony was going to come back to bite him in the ass, but to be fair, he wasn’t expecting Tony’s reaction to the brush off to be “make a team effort to try more persistently to make Clint feel appreciated and included.” Maybe he got advice from Pepper. Then again, this is utterly mortifying enough that maybe Tony wasn’t concerned about Clint’s feelings at all, and just wanted to force his hand. 

 

“I’d have to consider it, before making a final assessment,” Clint finally blurts. It doesn’t work. 

 

“I don’t need a final assessment yet,” Cap says, eyes--there is really no better word, Jesus--piercing, face stern. “Just, ballpark, what’s your read on this?” 

 

This is kind of the worst. Clint briefly thinks that jumping out the conference room window would be less painful. 

 

“I think that--um--” Clint stammers. Everyone is staring at him now, clearly wondering what the fuck is wrong with him. He bullshits something--he doesn’t even remember it after it comes out of his mouth. Cap, with a last little frown at Clint, thankfully directs the conversation to someone else, and Clint tries not to make eye contact with anyone for the remainder of the meeting. He thinks he can feel Natasha’s eyes burning a hole in the side of his head. He makes a break for his room as soon as the meeting is over. 

 

He doesn’t make it that far, though to his credit, he makes it upstairs and into an adjacent hall before Natasha materializes out of a doorway. 

 

She’s standing squarely in front of him. He can’t get around her. He briefly considers just turning around, but that’s just as useless. He swallows, knowing what’s coming. 

 

“I give you the courtesy of  _ weeks _ ,” she says, “And you still don’t come to me about whatever this is.” 

 

“Because you always share when things are wrong with you. Yeah, this is fair.” It’s irrelevant, but it’s  _ true _ ; Clint can’t forget her utter retreat from the outside world during the war, and it actually still hurts. 

 

“When it gets in the way of my job, yes, I pick up my dignity and I do. You have every right to ignore your friends, much as we might want to stop you, but ignoring your team when they need you--” 

 

“I’m not ignoring you!” He blurts, but can’t push any more words out. 

 

“Then what is the matter, Clint? You’re checked out. Nearly all the time now, and it feels like you are dissociating or deaf or just don’t care anymore, and I have been trying to think why--”

 

“‘Cause I am,” he retorts. “Deaf, I mean.” 

 

Natasha opens her mouth to answer back, but stops short when she takes the words in, and then Clint’s tone, and then the implications. She looks at him for a long minute, and he can see the jigsaw coming together behind her eyes. Clint feels like he suddenly understands why the biblical apocalypse is called Revelation. 

 

“Okay,” she says, “I actually wasn’t expecting that. How deaf, exactly?” 

 

His instinct is to downplay it, but no, it’s past the point for that. Honest as possible, now. 

 

“I can hear when people are talking, but usually can’t figure out what they’re saying unless I lip read, too. It’s harder with ambient noise. I can barely hear my phone alarm with the volume maxed out, but I can hear okay on the comm, with the volume maxed out--I don’t exactly know why. My left ear is better than my right.” 

 

She’s still looking at him steadily, absorbing it all. “Have you seen a doctor about it?” 

 

“No.” He looks away from her, and she doesn’t ask him why not, just waits while he shifts uncomfortably, picks out his words. “I was worried about what would happen if it were on record.” 

 

The fear of others getting hold of secrets is something she understands, at least, and she nods. “Who were you worried would find out?” 

 

“Anyone. I know it’s stupid to think I could have kept it from everyone forever, but it was working for a while when I didn’t know what was going on, and--god, I just didn’t want to leave.” 

 

Natasha’s focus is pulled up short by visible confusion. “Leave?” He can see she wants to bluff it out but instictively thinks better of it, because there’s no other way he’s going to elaborate.

 

Clint’s stomach flip-flops. “Because. You’re firing me?” 

 

Natasha stares. Clint is unsure where he went wrong. 

 

“Um, what?” he asks. 

 

“Clint, what the hell are you talking about?” 

 

“If I’m deaf that means I can’t be an Avenger, right? Like it’s bad enough that I have no superpowers, and all the rest, but there’s gotta be--you have to--” Wait, nothing is making sense anymore. 

 

“Clint, do you know who you work with?” Natasha demands. “We work with Captain ‘Bring It On’ Rogers, Tony Stark’s ego, two incestuous gods who keep flagging down extraterrestrial attention, and the Hulk. Why on earth do you think you being deaf is a dealbreaker?” 

 

Oh god. Clint is such an idiot.  _ Such _ an idiot. At least everything makes sense again.    
  


“I’m an idiot,” he says. He sits down, hard. Right on the hallway floor, super gracefully. 

 

“Exactly,” says Natasha, cracking a little bit of a grin. “That’s an  _ actual _ problem, but we manage, don’t we?” 

 

He can’t even tease back, he’s so relieved. “Is the team going to agree with you?” he asks, before he can get his hopes too high. “Is Fury going to agree with you?” 

 

“Fury won’t have an issue with it,” she says with confidence. “And I can handle anyone on the team that needs handling.” 

 

“You’re terrifying when you say stuff like that. I love you.” 

 

“What are friends for,” she deadpans with a little smile. She looks down at him. “Need anything?”    
  


“Um. Legs that aren’t Jell-O?” 

 

“I’m gonna make a cup of tea, come with me to my room,” she says, and pulls him up after her. They head downstairs, and only pass Thor on the way. He shoots the pair of them an inquisitive, concerned expression, at which Natasha smiles and gives him a nod. Thor smiles back, seemingly reassured that she has a handle on things. 

 

When Clint’s settled on her bed and she’s poured hot water from her electric kettle for the both of them, she turns to him, face turned inward in thought. 

 

“So,” she says, stirring, “if we can go back a minute, to where you thought it was ‘bad enough you didn’t have superpowers’...” 

 

“Well, that is technically true.” 

 

“And you think this puts you at some kind of disadvantage, resume wise?” 

 

“It makes me the weak link in the team,” he says, but winces as soon as it comes out of his mouth. Tactically, that is almost certainly not true--there are a dozen other targets that people would choose to hit, and successfully exploit, like Cap’s recklessness and Tony’s confidence and Thor and Loki’s histories and Bruce’s heart-rate, before they’d go for him. He looks back at Natasha to see her smiling faintly, watching him as he thinks this all through. 

 

“Okay, but it makes me--relatively--a delicate flower.” 

 

“In more ways than one, if it’s getting to you,” she says, and takes a sip of tea. 

 

“Harsh.” 

 

“But seriously, Clint, you just thought through the weaknesses of our entire roster, didn’t you? You’ve got incredible tactical ability, which I have seen you use again and again, and that’s far from the only talent you have. What exactly are you worried about?” 

 

Clint doesn’t entirely know how to answer that. Instead he focuses on, “Not like it made much difference in the war.” 

 

“Are you taking personal responsibility for that, now?” 

 

“Are you not?” 

 

“Touché.” 

 

They sit there for a minute in silent thought, drinking tea. Then, because it’s itching at the inside of Clint’s brain and he can’t not say it, “I’d say Loki managed to make a personal difference, wouldn’t you? Came up with all kinds of new strategies, gave us a lot of the information we needed--speaking of tactical ability--saved you and Cap. Makes sense that everyone feels so comfortable around them.” He would continue, but he peters off, because she’s shifted to sit back in her chair, holding her mug in her lap. 

 

“Well,” she says, smiling a little. “That was pointed.” 

 

“Yeah. Sorry, yeah.” He needs to cut this shit out, actually. It’s fine in his own head but bad for the team out loud. 

 

“No, that’s okay.” She shrugs one shoulder. “I can definitely see where you’re coming from.” 

 

He tries to smile. “Because I have reason to hate Loki.” 

 

“Because Loki is kind of a shit. A pretty likeable shit who is trying really hard, but a shit who messed up my best friend,” she explains easily.

 

Oh. 

 

Her eyes flick down from his face to her tea, and she continues, “I’m trying to get along with Loki because I want this team to work, and because I do think Loki deserves this chance--this particular chance, which they’ve been earning--to do a little better, but it’s not always an easy thing.” 

 

Hearing it like that, it makes so much sense. Like even if Loki has effectively charmed everyone else, of course they wouldn’t get Natasha so quickly. Clint’s such a dumbass; an idea he’s been old friends with for a while, and this is like one of those sleepless nights catching up chatting after months of letting life get in the way of seeing it. 

 

“Do you want to hear something dumb?” he asks Natasha. 

 

“Do I?” 

 

“I thought if you guys found out I was deaf I’d get fired and Loki would get my place on the team.” 

 

Natasha looks at him, then lets her head sink into one of her hands. 

 

“Yeah, yeah, I  _ know _ , laugh it up, I’ve only been losing weeks of sleep over this,” he says, and sure enough, her shoulders are shaking with laughter. She’s a really good friend. 

 

Because he is an asshole friend, he waits until she’s taking a sip to say, in a pondering tone, “Maybe they would get a little action figure made of them.” She nearly snorts tea into her nose and he cracks up, then rolls down behind the bed when she starts throwing things off her desk at him. 

 

\--

 

Coulson tries not to show it, but when he gets the news, he’s actually a little hurt that Clint didn’t tell him sooner. 

 

“I’m not going to pretend that employment discrimination doesn’t exist,” he says, “But,” and here he looks Clint dead in the eye, “for the record, I will always advocate for you, Clint.” 

 

Clint does not deserve the people he has, he’s pretty sure.

 

\--

 

Natasha goes to all the appointments with him, of course, in spite of Coulson’s dry comment that this actually falls under  _ his _ job description. It’s really nice, actually, to have someone around to make sure he’s going to catch all the information he needs. It’s not like an interpreter would help him much, given his extremely limited signing vocabulary, and Natasha’s going to be present for all the adjustments he’ll need to make with the team, and might--will, he tells himself, because she’s in this with him now and he feels dumb for thinking she wouldn’t have, she will do her best to facilitate the adjustments the team needs to make for him. Technically that’s also Coulson’s job, but Natasha will be there for the little, everyday things. He wonders if he’s stupid to feel so safe with the both of them, but they have yet to let him down, for anything. 

 

The feeling of safety isn’t unmitigated; he goes through all the tests, with the tuning forks and increasingly soft beeping noises and the rest, with bated breath. He can still aim and shoot, he reminds himself; there’s no damage to that. But beyond that, he doesn’t really know what is in his future, with regards to the ability to hear. 

 

He comes away with the understanding that it’s probably permanent. The deafness of his childhood was damage to the eardrum, which healed with treatment. This is damage to the cochlear nerve--due to repeated noise exposure, most likely, or assorted other trauma. Probably not going to come back, even with surgery. He’ll need hearing aids, if he wants to bring some of his hearing back, and their effectiveness can vary on an individual basis. They’ll cost him (not an issue, thank you Avengers pay grade), and they’ll take some maintenance, especially if used during hard physical activity (potentially much more of an issue, thank you Avengers job requirements). 

 

Tony, predictably, has a field day with this idea. He’s determined to give Clint the best hearing aids known to man.

 

“Not everyone loves their prosthetics like you do,” Bruce tries, unsuccessfully, to remind him, but Tony ignores him to ask for Clint’s audiogram results, and gets distracted pulling up medical articles. Bruce sighs--but affectionately--and takes matters into his own hands. “Clint, what sort of goals do you have, in terms of hearing or not?” 

 

“I mean, I’m worried I’m going to destroy them--apparently you’re supposed to put them in a dehumidifier at night.” Bruce nods, and makes a note on a tablet. “And it would be good to be able to hear everything on the comm,” says Clint. “We’re not always in line of sight.” At Bruce and Tony’s shared alarmed look, he says, “I can hear  _ most _ things on the comm, I’m pretty sure, just sometimes it seems distorted.” He glances self-consciously around the living room, where his teammates are wandering in to hear updates. Maybe he should have made more effort to talk to them individually, but at least this way he doesn’t have to have six conversations instead of just one. 

 

“Okay, yeah, that’s a high priority goal,” says Tony. “Even if we can’t manage that, we need to figure out a workaround, ideally before the next mission. To be fair, you’ve been managing fine enough without that we had no idea you were having trouble with it, but…” 

 

“Yeah,” says Clint, “I’ve been a little worried about it.” He’s still a little agog at Tony’s last statement. No idea? He’s been so tied up in trying he thought it must be obvious. 

 

“Anything else we should know?” asks Bruce. Clint hesitates, sort of at a loss. He’d mostly been concentrating on how to keep his job. 

 

“If you think of anything, you can keep us updated,” Bruce suggests. “If you don’t mind my asking--should we be learning sign language? Would that be easier than using the hearing aids all the time?” 

 

Clint hasn’t thought much about it. “I mean, I barely know any ASL,” he says.

 

“If you had plans to learn more, we’d be happy to learn with you,” says Cap. It’s out of nowhere, but also a really nice gesture. Clint cracks a smile. 

 

\--

 

The hearing aids are helpful, when he finally gets them fitted. The difference in how much auditory information he takes in now is kind of staggering. He gets headaches for the first few days. 

 

“You remember the doctor said you should start at only a couple hours a day, right?” Natasha reminds him on day four, sardonically.

 

“Didn’t catch that part--doctor kept turning away and talking to you.” 

 

“Noticed that.” She’s dropped the smile. “You want a new doctor?” 

 

“Do you know a better one? It’ll be fine, Natasha, least for right now. Maybe just redirect him back to me when he talks to you? Definitely keep taking notes, thanks for that.” She nods, and he knows she will.

 

The battery dies in his right ear for the first time two weeks later, mid mission. Fucking typical. And Clint learns how to change the batteries for the first time while hiding under a dumpster from robots armed with laser cannons. He maybe should have just left it for later, but he’d been under the dumpster already when it blew out, and the view under there wasn’t too great for checking if the coast was clear. So showing typical Barton good judgment, he made the call.

 

He tells the story over dinner post-mission, to everyone’s disbelief, laughter, and--even from  _ Cap _ \--impressed looks. He feels pretty damn proud of it for a while afterward. 

 

“You know, not to sound like a plug for my own products,” says Tony, “but arc reactors don’t die every two weeks.” 

 

“Didn’t  _ you _ nearly die having one plugged into your chest?” asks Natasha. “I seem to remember that.” 

 

“Yeah, not sure I want those in my ears,” says Clint. 

 

“That was  _ before _ I recalled that design, and  _ invented a new element _ to create a safer version, so you can take back that insinuation that I am cutting corners--” 

 

“Would it be possible to make them so small?” asks Thor--just to troll Tony, Clint is certain. “They would have to be truly miniscule.” 

 

“And wherever you went, you’d have lights shining out of your ears,” Bruce puts in. “Tiny, tiny ear flashlights.” 

 

“We could make them a trend, if two Avengers are wearing them,” smiles Pepper. “Debating the safety of LED-based body modification would certainly make the millennial clickbait articles more interesting.” 

 

“Why do I even date you two,” says Tony, and Bruce and Pepper grin at each other in a way that is truly disgusting for how adorable it is. Clint’s glad to be here; he’s glad he’s not fired, and he’s glad his friends are good. 

 

\-- 

 

“Okay but in all seriousness, they wouldn’t be plugged straight into your head, which, amazing breakthroughs in fundamental chemistry aside, would significantly reduce the risk--” 

 

“Whoa, okay, slow down, and--alright, if you really, really need to tinker with my hearing aids, you could work on making the comm system t-coil compatible.” 

 

“T-coil?” Tony is taking notes again, “T as in Tyrannosaur?” 

 

“Yup. I don’t really know how they work, don’t ask me, but I know my aids have them.” 

 

“Your wish is my command,” says Tony, storing the notes away digitally. “For the record, though, how hard you blew me off when I was asking what was up a while back? Not cool. Like honestly, what did you think we would have a problem with, half of us have had changes made to our original--” Clint can  _ see  _ him struggle not to say ‘chassis,’ “--configuration anyway, between Bruce and Cap and yours truly.” 

 

“Yeah, but those--” Clint struggles how to quantify it. Indestructibility, super-strength and stamina, those are-- 

 

“--Those are like bonuses,” Clint finishes. 

 

“Yeah, because I totally got hooked up to a car battery for funsies.” 

 

“Shit. Sorry.” 

 

“No worries, I’m familiar with the attitude,” says Tony. “I never planned on it happening, parts of it really sucked, sometimes parts of it come back around to suck in new and exciting ways, but there are some interesting side effects and excellent benefits as well. As I’m sure you’ll find out.” 

 

Clint guesses that he shouldn’t be that surprised to hear a genius say some pretty smart things. 

 

“I honestly just thought you were going to let Loki have my job,” he says, to lighten the mood. 

 

Tony just stares for a second. 

 

“I can’t tell if you’re fucking with me, are you fucking with me?” Tony finally says, gesturing with his soldering iron. “You are masterful at fucking with people.” 

 

“I’m kinda not really fucking with you,” says Clint, at which point Tony full-on cackles. “Look, we’re not all great under pressure, okay, mister self-surgery-in-a-cave--” 

 

“No, are you fucking kidding,” Tony is a little helpless with laughter now, “I relate to that, I sympathize deeply with your abysmal interpersonal judgement, Jesus.” He gets a little more control over himself, but he’s still grinning hugely at Clint. “We are all in really, really good company with each other.” 

 

\--

 

That isn’t the end of it, though. Clint’s not sure how they heard about it--maybe Tony couldn’t not share how Clint had managed to work himself into a tizzy. Retrospectively, it is a little hilarious. But however it comes about, Clint is greeted on an otherwise bright and beautiful early-winter morning over coffee by Loki, who enters the kitchen as silently as is their usual habit. Clint nearly jumps out of his skin, and loses about a third of his coffee. 

 

“I was wondering,” they say, “if I could speak with you.” 

 

They look like a woman, at the moment--and as far as Clint can tell most of the time, that’s random, but this time he has the sneaking suspicion that it might be because Loki thinks that’s disarming, making themself a little smaller, with a higher voice. Whatever, he’ll roll with this. 

 

“Sure, okay,” he says, and makes room for Loki at the counter. They slide onto a stool, and fold their hands on the counter in front of them. They’re collecting themself. 

 

“You’ve been very gracious about my continued presence, thus far,” begins Loki, “but from what I understand, that has not been easy.” 

 

Clint shrugs, and wants to look away, but doesn’t really want to miss anything, or turn his back on Loki at all. “I mean, it’s what needs to be done.” 

 

“Is it?” Loki asks, eyes searching Clint’s face. What the fuck do they want him to say, seriously. He thinks about just staring it out, but Loki would probably just stare back and make it like he was being the awkward one, so he tries again. 

 

“I mean, for the team. We’re both working toward the same thing, they kind of need both of us, so we have to figure out how to live with each other.” 

 

“With all due respect, I am having very little difficulty living with you,” responds Loki, and that’s just great, that’s exactly what Clint wanted to hear. That they lose no sleep about their choices and it’s just Clint being dysfunctional and fucked up after all this. They continue, “And while I cannot fault you for not finding a similar ease in cohabiting with me, I also cannot help but notice it.” 

 

“Okay, so what do you want me to do?” asks Clint. He’s trying really hard not to lose his temper in the face of Loki’s relentless, oh-so-reasonable calm. 

 

Loki lets a short, sharp breath out through their nose. “I wanted to ask if there was anything more I could do to make this a more tolerable situation for you.” 

 

“It’s tolerable,” says Clint. “Maybe not pleasant, but tolerable.” 

 

“Well, then perhaps--” 

 

“ _ Perhaps _ ,” Clint interrupts, “you could just live with the fact that you fucked me up and I’m never gonna like you.” 

 

Loki’s eyes narrow. Clint feels a little moment of triumph--finally stirred up a piece of honest anger, rather than this consistent charade that Loki is being professional where Clint can’t keep his emotions in check. 

 

“The indifference, even the hatred, of those I respect is far too regular an occurrence to consider it even remotely unlivable,” Loki says, low and precise. 

 

“Cry me a fucking river.” 

 

“As you say,” breezes Loki, with a regal little gesture of the hand. “But on the topic at hand, this is not a matter of my own absolution. On that matter, I am resigned. This is about making our living situation a little less awkward for all involved, for which I am sure you can understand the need.” 

 

“You know what’s funny?” says Clint. He feels like he’s seeing red a little, but he also feels ice cold, clear-headed. “If you had caught me just a month ago, that line would have made me so self-conscious. And god knows I still hate watching how you are so far into my friends’ good graces with your amazing magic and your tragic past and your frigging redemption arc thing you have going on--but now? I actually know who my team is, and that they have my back, and they are not about to ditch that for you.” 

 

Loki, rather than looking as defeated and ashamed as Clint might have hoped in his wildest dreams, mostly looks chagrined and angry. 

 

“Do you know,” says Loki, slow and poisonous, “I couldn’t actually believe that you would think so little of their regard for you? When Stark told us that you’d said those things to him, I for one thought that the others were reading far too much into a joke. But I did perceive your continued unhappiness with me, and so I agreed to speak with you on the matter--in hopes that I might be able to mitigate that unhappiness in some way.” They slide off the stool, standing to leave. “Of course they would never choose me over you.” 

 

“If you want to do me a favor, Loki, then just get away from me!” Clint says to their retreating back, but his heart is jumping in his throat. This really didn’t go well at all, and he didn’t expect it to, but--well. He had not expected to feel so much like an asshole at the end. 

 

He scrubs a hand down his face. Fucking Loki. He doesn’t want literally everything to do with them to be so confusing and uniformly awful, but he can’t think of any way around it. It just is. 

 

He turns back to his coffee. It’s actually okay if this doesn’t work itself out, he reflects. He’s had an especially good run of things working themselves out, lately. And it’s like he told Loki (he remembers with a little embarrassment): this not working out will actually not be the end of his world. 

 

\--

 

Nevertheless, this conversation does kind of fuck up the rest of Clint’s day and the morning after that. He is, if he is being honest with himself, excessively crabby to his teammates. 

 

It’s still surprising when he gets an email the day after that from Director Fury, on which Thor and Loki are also CCed. It’s an invitation to a meeting, scheduled for 10am tomorrow in Fury’s office, barring a Code Red. 

 

He thinks about it for another half-second, and then finds himself up against a new conundrum. He knew that Loki was pissed after their abortive little talk, but he didn’t peg them as the type to tattle to Fury. Why not, he can’t precisely say, as it seems appropriately underhanded. It’s too reliant on an authority that Loki doesn’t have in their pocket, is maybe the issue. 

 

But if this meeting isn’t about his Loki issues, he really has no inkling what it  _ could _ be about. 

 

When he shows it’s just him and Fury--Thor and Loki haven’t arrived yet. Fury doesn’t mess around; he pours Clint a cup of coffee and sits down across from him. 

 

“In case you were worried, this is not a disciplinary kind of meeting,” he says, right off the bat. 

 

“Thank you, sir,” says Clint, and takes the coffee. He gets why everyone thinks Fury is scary--he really knows how to play that part, when he needs to--but this is doing wonders for Clint’s nerves. The man is good with people. 

 

“I called you here because this directly relates to you and Loki, and because of Loki, also to Thor,” continues Fury, “but this was entirely Loki’s decision, and not your responsibility. We--Loki and I--just wanted to let you know first, so you wouldn’t be put on the spot by the news.” 

 

“I thought that making the initial announcement to a greater audience would appear calculated,” says Loki, from where they have materialized directly to Clint’s left. Clint tries to mop up the spilled splashes of coffee as discreetly as possible. He gives a nod to Thor, who evidently caught a trans-dimensional ride with Loki, and who gives an apologetic nod back.They both find seats around the table; Clint sees that Loki allows Thor the chair nearer to Clint.

 

“So,” says Clint, into the short but nevertheless awkward pause, “what decision is not my responsibility?” 

 

“The decision to get away from you,” says Loki, with a little smile. 

 

“Loki was under the impression that you could use some space without them around,” Fury supplies, giving Loki a quelling look. “And as it happens, I have a couple of assignments abroad that would fit their skill set.” 

 

“You’re leaving?” blurts Clint. “Leaving New York?” 

 

“Possibly Earth,” Loki answers. 

 

“What can I do to make you respect classified information?” Fury asks Loki, rhetorically. He turns to Clint, and explains further. “Yes, Loki is going to be doing some follow up on Thanos’ objectives in searching for the Tesseract. Thor wants to go with them.”  Here, Fury looks exasperated, but Thor just looks resolutely back at him. Fury goes on. “Because we realize this will involve some restructuring of your team, and some adjustments made by your team around that, we wanted to give you this chance to voice any objections you might have to this idea.” 

 

Clint sits back. “Because this is about giving me space.” Nobody gives him so much as a wince in answer to that. 

 

He’s glad they didn’t announce this to the whole team first, because he definitely feels a little like he’s breaking up the band. He tries to gather himself for a second. Speaking purely strategically--yeah, the Avengers could make do without either of the Asgardians. It wouldn’t be easy to handle bigger problems, but then, the threats they’ve dealt with lately haven’t involved a full team roster. If Thor and Loki’s departure were kept on the down-low, like Fury seems to want, it would grant the Avengers even more leeway in terms of how much of a force they present to potential threats before everyone figures out that part of the team is absent. It’s just--

 

They’ve relied on each other so much, for the past year, even Loki. It’s hard to imagine any of them being anywhere else. And Cap and Thor were finally feeling easy around each other again, getting their old depth of friendship back-- 

 

“This is about a lot of things,” says Fury, “Among which, giving each member of the Avengers what they need to keep working effectively. That includes you, Clint, though it isn’t limited to you. Let me repeat,” he says, meeting Clint’s eyes. “Meeting the needs of this whole team isn’t your responsibility. Doing what you need in order to be a solid member of this team, that  _ is _ .” 

 

That...is a really solid point. And it doesn’t get much plainer than that, in terms of what Fury is asking of Clint. And in the face of that, the decision is suddenly easy, the options laid out in a clear line for him to select from. 

 

“Given all of that,” Fury says, “do you have any objections to this idea, Agent Barton?” 

 

There’s only one more thing bothering Clint. He looks at Loki. “Why are  _ you _ doing this?” 

 

Loki cocks their head to one side, seeming to consider it. “Many reasons.” 

 

That’s probably the best Clint’s going to get from this, and when it comes right down to it? He can live with that. 

 

“No objections, Director,” Clint says. 

 

\--

 

The team takes handles it well, though it’s pretty obvious that the news takes them aback. They bid Loki and Thor both good luck, ask when it is they plan to leave (at the beginning of the following month), and are generally professional. Thor assures them that the assignment is not a permanent one, and that he and Loki will always be on call should the Avengers need their help. The meeting is adjourned, and Loki leaves first--they don’t particularly want to deal with the goodbyes, or maybe conspicuous lack thereof, knowing Loki. Natasha gives Clint an approving nod--she already got the news from Clint, on the day of his meeting with Fury--and leaves to follow Loki. Thor has clasped Cap’s arm and promising to speak with him more about this later, before Cap visibly collects himself and comes over to talk to Clint, gesturing for Clint to follow him off to the side. Clint braces himself. 

 

“Hey,” he greets Clint, nearly conversationally. “How are you doing?” 

 

“Um.” Clint’s still a little worried that this is going to be a call-out. He just took away Steve’s best friend. 

 

“I mean, it can’t have been easy for you having Loki around all the time, and you’ve carried that well,” Cap says quietly. “I’m glad things worked out such that you get a little space. I know I didn’t have as much of a hand in making that happen as I should have, so this might sound a little empty, but if there’s anything you need, I hope you’ll say something to me, or Tony, or Fury again.” 

 

“Actually, Fury said something to me,” says Clint, spilling the beans before he really knows what his mouth is doing. “I think this was Loki’s idea? Or Fury’s, probably.” 

 

Cap looks surprised, but then nods. “Well, I’ll have to thank him for having your back, then,” he says. “I’ll try to keep up with that.” 

 

“Yeah, no, it’s fine,” says Clint, verbally flailing. Cap smiles at him and follows Tony out of the room. 

 

And if that wasn’t enough, Bruce finishes up whatever talk he was having with Thor to catch Clint before he can leave, too. 

 

“Actually, I wanted to thank you,” says Bruce by way of explanation, “for making Loki an issue.” 

 

“What?” 

 

“I mean, not that you made much of an issue out of it,” clarifies Bruce, “but thanks for telling people how you felt. I guess I was sort of more on my toes about Loki than I cared to admit, but I’m glad to have a little breathing room. I think I should have considered how you were feeling and taken it to Tony or to Fury myself, but you spoke out first. Thank you.” 

 

Which, okay, is really rewarding to hear, but Clint doesn’t quite feel like he deserves that. “I didn’t--I mean, yeah, I told Tony, but then Loki came and tried to talk to me about it and I really told them how I was feeling,” he’s stammering, “and then next thing I know Fury’s asking me my opinion about it. It wasn’t really my idea, for them to leave. I didn’t do much.” 

 

“More than me, though,” says Bruce, with a self-deprecating little grin. He excuses himself, and Clint is left alone. 

 

He heads down the hall toward Natasha’s room. He feels a little flustered, but overall, that went just fine. Nobody blamed him for anything. If anything, he maybe got a little more credit than he deserved. 

 

He turns a corner into a stretch of hall where Natasha is holding Loki in quiet conversation, at such a speed that he can’t really backtrack and pretend he didn’t just barge in on them. He sometimes really wishes he could hear better. 

 

Loki, who was earnestly listening to whatever Natasha was telling them a moment ago, looks over her head to spot Clint immediately. There are tears shining in their eyes, unshed, and Clint can see that Loki is regretting the eye contact at least as much as Clint is. 

 

Clint decides suddenly on a course of action. He walks right up to them and asks, voice level, “So, this assignment you and Thor are on, is it permanent?” 

 

Loki’s face cracks into a vicious, toothy grin. “I’m afraid that’s unlikely.” 

 

“Good,” says Clint, and Loki drops the shark smile in shock. “You should come back in a little while--like, several months, maybe, depending on how things are going.” He tries to clarify. “With your assignment, and with work here. We might need you again in a few months, who knows.” 

 

Loki stares at him for a second longer, not recovering well from the surprise, and then drops their gaze, smiles a little gentler. 

 

“I suppose we shall see, won’t we? Goodnight, Agents Barton, Romanoff.” They beat a quick retreat off down the hall. 

 

“Well played,” says Natasha, after Loki is out of earshot. 

 

“It was kinda true,” says Clint, but yeah, he feels like he did good with that one. 

 

\-- 

 

Cap was totally serious about the willingness to learn ASL, and it takes a little while, but Clint ends up registering them both for a class. 

 

He’d been going back and forth on the idea for a while. On a purely practical level, he doesn’t have any deaf friends, and the hearing aids help him communicate with his team just fine, though the Avengers are, at least in theory, willing to commit themselves to learning the language, and it would be good to have a backup in case his aids fail him. 

 

On the other hand, ASL was really...it was such a Barney thing. 

 

Like he knows, intellectually, that in order for it to not just be a Barney thing he ought to take it up with other people, but viscerally, it was so private. It was literally a world that only they shared. It was safe(ish). And in a weird way, the ways that it wasn’t safe, the way that even Barney would hit him sometimes when he was too still and quiet, aren’t things that Clint particularly wants other people to be able to see and judge. Which doesn’t make any sense, because they wouldn’t see those things; it’s a language known by millions of people. It’s not a private window into his childhood. 

 

In any case, it’s sort of a fraught decision. 

 

But actually, this is a bigger matter than just him and his memories. After he starts wearing the hearing aids on missions--and Tony did, eventually, find a way to make the t-coil compatible with the comm system--he meets another kid, older, and even though he can finally hear the name this girl’s mom supplies (Juliet), it’s not his relative ability to hear that makes the moment stand out. It’s how the girl starts pointing at his hearing aid, and signing excitedly to her mom, and then wants to pull her long hair back and show him hers.  _ Purple, nice _ , he signs from memory, without really understanding her rapid-fire conversation. At least, he hopes it’s purple. There was a color that also looked a lot like the sign for penis, but maybe that was pink, oh god, Clint why does this always happen with you--but no, her mom is smiling at him so it’s probably not a disaster, and signing back to her daughter and talking to Clint in between, who feels compelled to apologize, verbally, that he can’t sign well. Juliet’s mom interprets his apology for her, and then relays Juliet’s question back to Clint. “Are you going to learn ASL?” 

 

“I’m going to try,” he tells her, and then it’s a promise he has to keep. He turns to her mom. “I don’t suppose you know  _ where _ I could learn--” 

 

“Juliet goes to school at Fanwood, and they offer evening classes,” she says. “My husband and I are both hearing--they’re really good classes, even for people who learned later in life.” 

 

So that’s how he ends up sitting next to Cap and five strangers, ranging from mid-twenties to well past middle age, in an ASL Basic 1 course. He’s pretty sure the mid-twenties lady is taking surreptitious pictures of Cap on her phone before the instructor walks in. 

 

Her name, according to the board, is Laura. She doesn’t give a last name--they’re all adults, in this class, so he can see why “Miss So-And-So” wouldn’t apply. She’s patient with them, but clearly not going to let them slack off. She doesn’t use spoken English with them at all, and very little written English. Instead, she begins with the alphabet--and Clint cannot for the life of him remember how to sign the letter x, so it’s for the best that they are refreshing this. He hasn’t signed since the late '70s, anyway. He picks it up fast, though, and after Laura shows them a short video of people introducing themselves to each other, she calls him and another student up front to recreate the roleplay. ‘Hi’ is easy for everyone to recognize; ‘name’ is easy enough to guess in context, and Clint even remembers ‘nice to meet you’ out of the depths of his formative years. Maybe he’s showing off a little--he can see visible concentration and confusion in the faces of his partner and the other students--but it’s pretty great to feel like he’s top of the class at something. She breaks the class into pairs after that, and helps everyone when they need it. Cap’s pretty good--he’s very quick to learn, and the teacher corrects his hand shapes a little. Clint can tell she likes it when he takes this in stride, and it makes sense--it makes her job easier, when a student can take criticism. 

 

The next week, they start on ‘wh’- questions--what, when, why, where--and facial expressions, and Clint’s suspicion that his advantage on the rest of the class would be short-lived is confirmed. It’s really hard to know what his face is doing at any given moment, and it just gets worse the more he thinks about it. 

 

Laura beckons him over after that lesson, once she’s said goodbyes to the rest of the class. She scribbles for a moment, then hands him a note.  _ If you have questions about Deaf culture or need resources, or want help with lessons, please feel free to email me.  _ There’s an email written underneath. Laura offers a stack of post-it notes and a pen from her purse when Clint signs “write,” and Clint gives her his email in return. 

 

There’s dinner after he drives Cap and himself back to Tony’s mansion, and then it seems a little late to be bothering her, but the next morning, he emails Laura with thanks for reaching out. He doesn’t bother asking how she knew he might want the guidance--she almost certainly saw his hearing aids--but appreciates her extra attention anyway. He thinks about telling a little of his own story, deaf as a kid, deaf again; or about his promise to Juliet, and how nerve-wracking it is to walk into battle and in front of cameras missing one of the senses he’s used to having, with so little margin for error. 

 

Instead, he asks her what got her into teaching. And jokingly asks if she’s taught any superheroes. He’s not sure about that last joke, but he sends the email before he can talk himself out of the entire message. 

 

She answers after only a day, saying that she had studied ASL and gotten a Masters in early childhood education even before it became obvious that she was affected by otosclerosis like her mother and grandfather. Clint hadn’t noticed her hearing aids; or maybe she doesn’t use them, or maybe she had surgery for it--and in any case it’s none of his business and of course it makes sense for an ASL teacher at a respected school to be Deaf herself. It comforts him, somehow, though, to know that she not only has a closer understanding of what it feels like for him to be deaf, but also to go deaf later in life. 

 

She doesn’t  _ think  _ she’s taught any other superheroes, she adds, though she’s got a couple of suspicious characters in her Basic 1 class...

 

The classes continue to go well. Clint knows the rest of the lessons won’t be as easy as the first one, but he feels like he might have some kind of handle on this. And he likes Laura--she’s expressive and funny, and when she sees him off with  _ see you next week _ he finds himself really looking forward to it. 

 

In their flurry of new-goal enthusiasm, Cap and Clint practice signing nearly every day. Cap’s a quick learner--Clint even ends up teaching him some of the words he remembered from childhood, hoping he’s not recalling them wrong. 

 

The other Avengers drift through the common spaces during these practice sessions, and sometimes even settle nearby with their own tasks. People seem to enjoy watching them--it makes Clint a little self-conscious, but also a little proud, seeing their impressed faces at the speed and precision of Clint’s hands. 

 

Thor drifts in, looking for Cap--something he’s been doing a lot lately since the announcement of his and Loki’s impending departure. He and Loki have been trying to get in as much time with their team as they can. Loki’s already on the couch next to Tony, helping him sort through the wires of some project. Thor is staring at Clint’s conversation, a little line between his eyebrows. 

 

“Something wrong, Thor?” Clint asks him, hands going still. 

 

Thor smiles, his forehead going smooth. “It is no issue, my friend,” he says. “But I must confess myself puzzled; the Allspeech is meant to reveal to its speakers the meaning behind words in any tongue, but I cannot understand your signs.” 

 

“The Allspeech is actually terrifically inadequate as a universal translator,” Loki puts in. Thor looks over at them, intrigued, but not terribly surprised. Loki continues, “In my travels before I came to Midgard the first time, I encountered several instances in which it failed me, most notably in virtually all nonverbal forms of communication. Given how many species utilize languages that are not based around spoken words, it’s not nearly as all-encompassing a tool as Asgardian propaganda around the subject would have us believe.” Loki’s clearly on a roll, but starts to fiddle with the half-gutted machine in their lap again--trying to be casual, though Clint wishes they’d keep their mouth in view. “Even as a common tongue for verbal languages, it leaves much to be desired, given how it kills nuance and reshapes most words--and by extension, ideas--to their closest Asgardian approximate.” They lift their eyes to look directly at Thor. “But then, I am given to understand that is the purpose of conquerors’ languages.” 

 

Even Clint has to appreciate that burn. “Way to make it awkward,” he grins at Loki. Loki smirks back. 

 

\-- 

 

When Thor leaves he gives everyone a hug, even Clint, opening his arms and looking hopeful. Clint isn’t going to refuse that--actually, he’s glad he gets a chance. It’s not like things between him and Thor are ever going to be one hundred percent, but it’s a really good note to end on. 

 

Loki doesn’t hug anyone, but does clasp hands with a couple people--Natasha, and surprisingly, Bruce. Tony isn’t really a huggy person except with Pepper, so to Tony and Clint and Cap Loki just gives a low inclination of their head, and a smile that seems a little softer than usual. 

 

Clint doesn’t feel the same kind of satisfaction fueled with anger and triumph that he felt last time the two left Earth. While the last was a real high, he thinks he might be happier with how he feels now--calm. A little unsure, on a purely logistical level, about how things are going to go now, but on a deeper level, positive that this will be a change for the better. He hadn’t realized how much he needed Loki to leave. 

 

The two Asgardians stand a little way away in the yard, looking upward--Thor expectant, Loki worried. Thor murmurs a few low words to Loki, who huffs derisively but relaxes. Then they’re gone, pulled away by the Bifrost’s pillar of bluish light. 

 

The two of them are essentially incommunicado, after that--there’s not a convenient way to keep in touch across that much space. Sure, Jane Foster figured out the quantum communication thing for intercepting Chitauri troop movements, back in the day, but no one seemed to have a very solid handle on how to make that work for full conversations. 

 

The total absence of part of their group is the strangest thing. It’s not as though they grieve the loss, since they’re not dead, just gone; but the mansion feels different, with fewer people in the halls, and fewer people around the table. Business as usual, but also gaps in the conversation where Thor’s laughter or Loki’s editorial commentary used to be. They are still, as Clint predicted, more than managing in the field, though he does have to accustom himself to the lack of magic or lightning or godlike strength in his team’s strategic toolbox. He adjusts, but it is an adjustment. 

 

So, so far from the end of the world, though. He’s not tense when he goes through certain parts of the house, anymore, and he loses--faster than he would have thought possible--the inclination to jump when someone enters the room too quietly behind him. Bruce seems to walk a little easier, too, for always-careful Bruce. 

 

Best of all, though--nobody resents Clint. And he’s been on the lookout for it. But no, Bruce is happier; Natasha is herself and still as warm with Clint as she ever is; Tony bitches about missing Loki in lab in a couple token instances, but lets it go easily; and Cap, for all that he seems a little quieter with Thor not around, doesn’t seem to hold any ill will toward Clint for the loss. Natasha, bless her, is doing everything she can to pick up that slack anyway, spending extra time with Cap on their off days, and ribbing him over the comm on missions. It’s working itself out, each member of the team smoothly accommodating the needs of the rest. 

 

It gives Clint room to think about more. He remembers just a little while ago thinking how impossible it would be to date outside the team, and now--well, it’s probably still impossible. But he’s got his ASL lessons, and if the after-class chats and occasional emails are any indication, a new friend in Laura. She asks him out to coffee. He says yes, barring any emergencies, and she, of course, understands that he’s on call--it’s surprisingly easy, anxiety free. 

 

That isn’t to say the Asgardians aren’t missed; the first day Cap lets them know he’s received an update from Fury--Thor and Loki are outside the scope of the Nine Realms, but safe, and connecting with a couple of Loki’s old contacts--everyone in the conference room livens up. Cap doesn’t have more info than that bare-bones update to give them, but it’s a bright spot in the day anyway--it gives a feeling of completeness, in a way. Everyone accounted for, the whole gang doing well. Clint can’t entirely explain this feeling existing in conjunction with the continued, profound sense of relief he feels about the new arrangement, but he’s willing to accept it. It’s not a cheat, really, to care about people even if you can’t live with them. That, at least, is something that he can wrap his head around, from years of experience; from Barney and Trickshot and now this latest, strange, difficult iteration of family. 

 

That’s a risky word, in Clint’s estimation--but once he’s thought it, he can’t really dismiss it. And given the risk to reward ratio applicable to his commitment to this team, it seems pretty accurate to what “family” usually means--it’s something that, for all that it can get miles better, probably never gets easier. 

 

This time around though, this family seems to have his back. Is trying, anyway. 

 

And for right now, that makes the work worth it. 


End file.
